


Cagaran Gaolach

by copperbadge



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Backstory, Child Abuse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-02
Updated: 2007-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't know if he would disappear like the Invisible Woman in the comics, or if he'd disappear completely and stop existing. This is quite the existential dilemma for your average six-year-old. Of course, little Claude was anything but average.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cagaran Gaolach

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the tags; this contains depiction and discussion of child abuse. 
> 
> This was written during S1, and does not reflect canon from later seasons.

As far as Claude knew -- and if anyone would fuckin' know, it would be Claude -- his was the first generation to manifest. 

Oh sure, you got your standard myths and legends, and all that bollocks in the comic books had to come from somewhere, but there was no hard evidence that anyone before his time ever showed any sign of being -- and he laughed whenever he thought about this -- "different". Different was the word they used, because "freakshow" was a bit pejorative and anything else sounded really pretty stupid. 

Claude's generation, raised on comic books, raised by parents who'd _discovered_ comic books, they were the first. For all he knew, Claude might have been _the_ first. He'd met freaks who were a bit older than he was, but none who'd manifested younger than he did. He'd read files about kids who had, but none of them were old enough to drive yet. The only thing they all had in common was that they intrinsically, deep down, _knew_ something. Either that they were special, or destined for greatness, or that they definitely had power if only they could figure out how to use it. Commonly this was called "delusions of grandeur".

He'd been certain, when he was a tow-headed six-year-old, that if he closed his eyes and clenched his hands just right and thought just the right thoughts, he could disappear. He already knew all the best hiding places, and that was a short step away. The problem was that he'd never quite had the guts to do it, because he didn't know if he would disappear like the Invisible Woman in the comics, or if he'd disappear completely and stop existing. This is quite the existential dilemma for your average six-year-old. 

Of course, little Claude was anything but average. Even his teachers said so, though they sort of sighed resignedly as they said it. _...a bright and engaging child, but his disruptive behaviour in class..._

"What's this?" asked his father, shoving his grimy hands in his pockets and standing in the middle of the kitchen. Claude looked up guiltily from the sink. He was too short to reach it, so he'd dragged a chair across the kitchen, and true, it had left little scuff marks on the lino, but he'd planned to wash those off before Dad came home...

"Dishes," Claude said hesitantly. Funny, even in his memory he was Claude. Hell, maybe that was his real name. Memory got a bit blurred when you thought about being a kid, didn't it. Probably a mercy.

"What for?"

"Cos on account of they was dirty," Claude replied. 

"Who said you'll do the dishes?"

"Nobody," Claude said. 

"Ain't the place clean enough for you?"

The Council flat they lived in, on Dad's dole cheques? Sure, clean enough inside. The halls always smelled kind of like piss and the stairs were full of trash, but inside was fine if you ignored the fraying carpet, ashtrays, spilled ash, grime in the bathroom, and the sink full of dirty dishes. Claude could never figure out how they ended up with so many, since mostly they ate take-away.

"Well?" his father asked, glowering.

"Thought you might like if I tidied, like," Claude mumbled. He still cringed at the memory of that submissive murmur, thirty years later. What a wee pillock. 

"Wouldn't need so much tidying if I didn't have you," his father grunted. Claude felt his fingers tighten on the plate in his soapy right hand, but that shifted the balance of the plate slightly. It slipped right out of his grip, crashing down into the sink. Greasy water sloshed everywhere.

"You did that on purpose!" his father shouted.

"No, dad, swear I didn't -- " Claude did have this to his credit, he didn't wait to be hit. He was a smart little nipper and he jumped off the chair instead. His dad, whose reflexes weren't quite so good, broke his wrist on the edge of the sink (Claude heard the bones snap) and howled in pain. 

"You little fuck!" he screamed, but Claude was already well away, at least as far as he could go in the tiny flat. He should have run for the door, but Creepy Willie was in the stairwell round this time of day and Claude was more afraid of being grabbed by Creepy Willie (an unknown article; years later he read the man had been picked up for soliciting underage girls) than a thrashing from Dad. 

He tried to get his breath back as he hid behind the dresser in the closet, one of the places Dad sometimes forgot to look. If he were lucky he'd realise his wrist was broken and go off to the doctor and Claude could get his wits back before he came home. 

Dull thuds in the hall told him he had no such luck. Dad looked in his room first, probably under the bed, behind the grubby drapes, and in the toy bin (a gift from some charitable group long in the distant past). After Claude started hiding behind his bookshelf, Dad had moved it against the wall and bolted it there, so that hiding place was right out. 

He closed his eyes and tried not to breathe. His soapy hands were clenched tightly, ragged bitten nails scraping against his palms. The door to Dad's room opened, and he heard him get down to check under the bed. 

The closet door opened.

Claude squeezed his eyelids shut so tight he saw stars and clenched his fists that much tighter and wished himself Disappeared. 

Nothing happened.

He opened his eyes and looked up into the face of his father, blotting out the dim light from the single bulb in the ceiling lamp. Now he did brace for the blow, but it never came.

"I know you're somewhere," his father said, loud enough to make Claude shy away from the noise. Still, it was as though his father didn't see him. After a second, the closet door slammed shut again and Claude was left in the dark. His father's footsteps receded down the hallway.

He kept his left hand clenched and held his right hand up to the slats of the closet door, expecting to see slantwise shadows interrupted by his fingers and palm. Instead, the light shone right through him. 

A feeling of _rightness_ that he wouldn't experience again until he lost his virginity (fourteen, Gent's loo, nightclub, Sheffield) coursed through him. 

He'd done it. He'd Disappeared himself. 

Cautiously, he eased the closet door open and stepped out into the bedroom. The lamplight passed straight through his body -- a delicious, almost physical sensation. He looked down and saw shallow indentations in the carpet where he was standing. 

He walked down the hallway and found his father in the kitchen, phoning a mate to get a ride to the local hospital. He stood and listened, then stepped back quickly as his father walked to the front door and left. Claude followed, down the hallway, down the stairs, right past Creepy Willie, out to the street. As his father waited, he cautiously picked the keys out of his back pocket. 

He watched his father get into the old junky car and ride off, cradling his wrist to his chest. Claude went back up the stairs and inside, unlocking the door with Dad's keys and then locking it again after himself. His left hand, still tight in a fist, was beginning to cramp; it would be months before he could Disappear without having to keep it in a fist, years before he forgot the urge completely. 

Claude opened both hands, turning them upright. He felt nothing, but when he held them up to the sun streaming through the dingy window, they cast shadows on his face again. 

***

Claude lay on the ledge of the building, heedless of the drop, more comfortable on filthy rooftops than anywhere else. No people up here to bump into him, no conversations to overhear, no secrets to come across inadvertently. Sure, when you're sixteen it's a thrill to sneak into someone's flat and watch 'em fuck, but the thrill pales by the time you hit seventeen. 

He put the cigarette between his lips and held the lighter sideways, inhaling.

"That'll kill you," Peter said, drinking from a thermos. He'd brought his lunch with him, so that inbetween pummelings he'd be properly fed. What a fucking schoolboy. 

"Thank you, nurse," Claude replied. "I'd almost forgotten. God forbid I engage in a moment of pleasure."

"I'm just saying."

"I'm not breathing in your direction."

"I'm not worried about me. It won't matter anyway, if I go up like a torch in a week or two," Peter said.

"If you go up, I go up, so you might as well not bother."

They sat in silence for a while, Claude blowing smoke rings, Peter sipping his soup. Aw Jesus, he was pouring it into the little sippy-cup lid, even. 

"Can I ask you a personal question?" Peter asked finally.

"Do I have a choice?" 

"When'd you find out you could -- do things? Did you, I mean. Did you _know_ , before you found out?"

Claude inhaled, flicking ash over the edge of the building. 

_Fuck me, what was my name. Kemp. Someone Kemp._

"Robert Kemp," he said, when the name finally got past the tip of his tongue. 

"Huh?" Peter asked. 

Claude glanced at him. He still sometimes Disappeared himself, without meaning to, when he was embarrassed; this time he managed to control it with no outward effort, and Peter none the wiser. 

"Reckon I did," he said. "Why?"

"When did it happen? For you, I mean," Peter said. 

Claude blew a thoughtful smoke ring. 

"Break time's over," he said. "Back to work."


End file.
